


The Aptronym

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baristas, Fake Names, Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: An aptronym, aptonym, or euonym is a personal name aptly or peculiarly suited to its owner.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 31
Kudos: 166





	The Aptronym

Greg grinned at the pretty blonde as she picked up her coffee from the far end of the counter.

“See you later,” she said, returning his smile.

This wasn’t the worst way to spend his Saturday mornings, Greg thought again, glancing over as the doorbell jangled to mark her exit. His sister’s coffee shop was a bright, cheery place, and manning the coffee machine held a comfortable rhythm. The hiss of the steam arm, the ear-splitting crunch of the grinder, the heady smell of fresh coffee, rich crema forming on as it poured. He took pride in his work, conscious of how he presented even the takeaway lattes, knowing most people wouldn’t see the pattern before they snapped the lid closed.

The constant hum of people swirled around him but he wasn’t required to speak; the noise of what he was doing, along with the concentration required to keep up with the steady stream of orders, meant a quick smile was as much as he could really be expected to provide. It was a blessing and a curse, depending on the day. Some days, when things were difficult, he was content to hide. Greg would never bail on his sister, now that he’d committed to helping her. Fiona had always been good at reading him, and the days he slipped in with a nod and a half-smile, she’d just hand him a couple of bottles of milk and leave him to get started. Regardless of how he felt, Greg would send Fiona home when the lunch rush abated, usually pushing her out the door as she protested.

“Go see your kids,” he’d say. “Give ‘em a kiss from Uncle Greg.”

“Come over for tea later,” she’d counter with a smile. “Tell ‘em yourself.”

“Okay,” he’d agree, and they’d share identical smiles.

They were sitting in her flat with the last of a bottle of wine, the first Saturday he'd sent her home only to come over for family dinner once he'd closed up shop. Fiona’s husband was doing the dishes, the kids were in bed, and Greg’s feet were sore, though he’d never admit it.

“Thanks for this afternoon,” Fiona murmured. She didn’t turn her head to speak; he could see fatigue on her face but there was contentment too.

Greg shrugged. “Afternoons’ve been quiet enough,” he said. “Sarah and I can manage.”

She nodded. “Still,” she said. “You do already have a job.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Less likely to be shouted at making coffee, though.”

Fiona nodded again, playing with her wine glass. “You know how much I appreciate this, don’t you?” she said. “Weekend rates are a killer, you’re saving us a fortune.”

“Hey,” Greg said, “we’re family.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “You know how proud of you I am, right? Starting up a business.” He shook his head. “Bloody amazing.”

“Thanks,” Fiona’d whispered.

It was the start of the routine. If things were quiet enough, Fiona was out of there by two o’clock, and Greg would send Sarah home an hour or two later. He didn’t mind the solitary work at the end of the day, knowing he could do some of the deep cleaning and shifting heavy stock between customers. The physical work was good after an increasingly sedentary job most of the week. There really wasn’t a downside, as far as he could see.

+++

The first time He came in, Greg was busy rotating the cases of juice in the storeroom. The order came on a Friday afternoon, and they always had to work around the boxes before Greg could backfill the fridges and rotate what was left. He’d leave Fiona a list of what they had so she could order for the following week. It gave him a sense of accomplishment, seeing the neat rows of numbers ready for her to work with on Monday morning. Strange that he actually didn’t mind this paperwork after a week moaning about what crossed his desk at work.

The doorbell jangled, and Greg immediately called, “Coming!” He put down the case of apple juice, wiping his brow on his arm as he ducked around the corner, grinning before he could see who was there.

It was a good thing he was at the far end of the café. The few steps between the back room and the register gave Greg enough time to figure out how to work his mouth again. He’d been expecting the usual pleasant looking couple, or young parent with a child or two. Not this tall man, incredible suit out of place especially on a Saturday. Greg flicked his eyes up, hoping he’d be able to recall the exact russet of that curl later. He expected the man to speak, or at least smile as he approached, but instead the grey eyes (Were they grey? Hard to tell from here) looked a little bewildered as they glanced around the café.

“Hi,” Greg said as he stopped in front of the register. “What can I get you?”

The redhead was looking at the coffee menu above Greg with more gravity than it really warranted. He wasn’t going to question it, not when it gave him a few seconds to study the beautiful human standing before him.

_That skin…_

“I would like to purchase a coffee,” the man said, his words smooth and rounded.

Greg wondered if this guy was alright. His words bore the careful precision of someone working hard to sound more clear-headed than they actual were. “Um, sure,” he said. “Anything in particular?”

The man blinked, considering the question. His eyes settled on Greg, grey and considering. “Black,” he said cautiously, “with a small amount of milk. Please.”

_Definitely grey._

“Sure,” Greg said easily. “Did you want to take it with you?”

Another slow blink, another second of careful consideration. It gave Greg more time to immerse himself in the grey eyes, which was fine by him. “Yes, please.”

It took a moment before the words sunk in. Greg mentally apologised as he grabbed a take away cup and a marker and asked, “What name?”

“Name?” the man repeated. Before Greg could explain, he blurted, “Doryphoros.”

It was Greg’s turn to blink, his brain processing. Something complicated flickered through the grey eyes, but Greg couldn’t read it. Spelling was a bit of a guessing game – _Doriphorus_ – before starting the man’s coffee. The noise of the grinder precluded conversation, and he took the opportunity to pull himself together. When the coffee was done Greg automatically turned to the right, but nobody was there. He glanced back in confusion, assuming everyone in the world knew the process.

_Order, name, move to the end of the bench._

Apparently not.

“Here you go,” Greg said, sliding the coffee past the register to his customer. “Black with room for milk.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the cup. He was hesitant, his eyes uncertain as they flicked back to Greg.

_He really has no idea how to do this, does he?_

“Hot milk or cold?” Greg asked, taking pity.

“Cold, please,” the man replied.

Greg added a dash of milk, pausing as it swirled into the blackness. He rarely had time to stand and watch this part. As he glanced up he realised his weren’t the only eyes on it; the grey eyes jerked up to meet his, as wide as his own. It was a moment of exquisite stillness and Greg could see the other man felt it too.

_How is this intimate?_

When a child shrieked outside the café, the moment was lost. The startled jolt was mirrored in the other man, though he recovered more quickly, picking up his coffee.

“Thank you,” he said, and without a glance back he walked out.

Greg stared after him until the sound of the door closing had faded from the empty café. His spine was still tingling at the whole encounter. Clearly the guy’s name wasn’t _Doriphorus_ – what kind of name was that? Greek?

Eyes still on the door, Greg fumbled for his phone. He knew he was guessing at the spelling, but as it turned out it was close enough. His eyes scanned the page Google brought up.

_The Doryphoros of Polykleitos is one of the best known Greek sculptures of classical antiquity, depicting a solidly built, muscular, standing warrior…_ _Polykleitos is known as the best sculptor of men, with the primary subjects of his works being male athletes with idealized body proportions…_

Greg felt his eyebrows rise. This guy was looking for a name and he came up with Doryphoros? What the hell was going through his mind to suggest that? It wasn’t until he glanced in the reflective metal of the coffee machine Greg made the connection. _Was that what he thought when he looked at me?_ If the redhead had chosen this name with Greg right in front of him, was he flirting? Or was it truly sub-conscious? He felt a smile grow as he considered the possibilities. Either way, if he came in again, Greg was going to be ready.

+++

The week was hectic, but all of a sudden it was Saturday afternoon again, cold but clear. Sarah left with Fiona after the lunch rush. Greg found himself glancing at the door, telling himself the cleaning was necessary, when he knew it was so he could keep an eye on the entrance. As if the redhead would come back. He was clearly out of his comfort zone last time. Why on earth would he come back again?

“Good afternoon,” the voice came from the door and Greg was smiling before he’d even turned in that direction.

“Hi,” Greg said, grinning. Jesus, was was wearing another suit? The coat buttoned over the top was just as nice as the last suit, and Greg’s mouth went dry considering what might be under it. _Probably another waistcoat._ How did he look so calm and comfortable in a three-piece suit?

“The coffee last week was excellent,” the man said. He sounded a lot more with it today, and Greg felt a buzz in his belly at the direct gaze. He couldn’t help flicking his eyes upwards, lingering on curl of red hair.

_I did remember right. God, that colour…_

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Greg replied easily. “I made it extra special. Only for my Greek customers, you know?”

The single raised eyebrow was understated and the obvious control sent a slow, delicious frisson of awareness up Greg’s spine.

_Oh…_

“Doryphoros,” the redhead murmured, amusement curling around his mouth. “Not my real name, I’ll grant you.”

“I’m sure it’s something completely boring,” Greg said with a grin. He leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms and waiting for the response. This was not how he imagined the conversation, but there was no part of him disappointed at the surprisingly flirty atmosphere.

“How did you know?”

Greg grinned. “I’m very observant,” he said, leaning on the innuendo. “I’d bet you’re a piano player.”

Another raised eyebrow. Greg knew he’d keep playing if it meant that reaction. All day long.

_All night long, too._

“I am.”

Greg could hear surprise in the words, and if he wasn’t deluding himself, the man was impressed.

“So, what name should I put on your coffee today?” Greg asked, picking up a marker. “Elton?” He grinned. “Or is Billy Joel more your speed?”

Another raised eyebrow, another shot in his belly as he waited for the redhead to respond.

“Ludovico,” he said, drawing the name out clearly.

Greg mouthed it again as he wrote. _Ludovico_. He could feel amusement in the grey eyes as though they were waiting for him to ask. The game was too delicious to give up, so Greg held his tongue. “Same coffee?” he said instead.

“Thank you,” came the calm reply.

The silence wasn’t exactly awkward, but Greg was conscious of how hard he had to concentrate not to glance up every five seconds as he worked. And he didn’t need his police training to know each move he made was being watched intently.

_Oh, this is delicious._

“There you go,” Greg said, sliding the coffee across as he had the previous week. “I’ve added your milk.”

“Yes,” he said, winding long fingers around his coffee, “I was watching.”

The words were heavier with meaning than Greg expected. He met the slight smile with one of his own, and they stood staring at each other, matching smiles growing across the warm air. This time it was far more robust; the tangle of threads connecting them stronger after today’s delicate dance of a conversation.

_And I don’t even know your name._

After what might have been hours, the doorbell jangled.

Greg glanced at the couple that had walked in, then back to his customer. Amusement was clear, but it was accompanied by something hotter and darker as well. A matching curl twisted in recognition in Greg’s belly. Before he could open his mouth, the customer spoke.

“Good afternoon,” he said, raising his coffee in farewell.

Greg didn’t know him well, of course, but he had the definite impression the man would be back.

_Who the hell is Ludovico?_

+++

The next week Greg didn’t even try to fool himself. The weather was keeping people away and Sarah left early again, happy to avoid the early dusk and snow. Greg sat in the front, folding take-away boxes as he kept an eye on the door. The music was calming but Greg’s brain was veering between thinking it was a cringe-worthy idea and hoping the enigmatic customer would like the nod to his latest pseudonym.

Piano instrumentals weren’t usually Greg’s style, but this Ludovico guy was pretty good. He might even suggest his sister play it sometimes. Like on the weekends. He grinned to himself at the idea. The smile was still on his face when a figure appeared on the far side of the glass door. The doorbell jangled, heralding the arrival Greg had been waiting for.

“Good afternoon,” came the quiet greeting, and Greg felt butterflies in his stomach.

“Hi,” he said, leaving the pile of boxes. He watched without speaking, the slow smile breaking as the customer’s face as he recognised the music.

“Not Christmas carols,” he murmured, loosening his scarf. “The change is a relief at this time of year.”

“What can I say,” Greg replied, standing up. He carried the pile of folded boxes back to their shelf and turned back, smiling. “Someone suggested it. Never knew I liked this kind of thing.”

“One of my favourites,” came the reply. As Greg picked up a takeaway cup, he continued almost apologetically, “I must travel next week. So I fear I won’t be…”

“You’ll be working over Christmas?” Greg said, ignoring the stab of pre-emptive loss. “Did you draw the short straw?”

“Indeed,” came the reply. “A Christmas party full of someone else’s colleagues.”

“Ouch,” Greg replied, wincing. He picked up the marker, an idea coming to him. He scrawled a name, wondering if the reference would go over this clearly sophisticated man’s head. But flying to another city to attend someone else’s work Christmas party? That meant only one thing to Greg, and he could only hope there was a fraction of pop-culture knowledge behind those amused grey eyes.

“Unavoidable,” the redhead murmured, “and between you and me, it is an improvement on family.”

“Really?” Greg said. He glanced up before beginning to pour the milk. “You should come to out to my family’s thing. Food, presents, and enough people to avoid talking to any one person for too long.”

The gamble paid off with a wry smile. Greg took another risk, handing the cup over instead of sliding it across the bench. The other man hesitated before accepting it, their fingers sliding past each other until the coffee passed from his custody.

_First contact._

Electricity. Sparks. Pins and needles.

Greg blinked, the redhead tilting his head to read the scrawl up the side of his coffee cup.

A beat of time, drawn out by Greg’s sudden certainty that it was a stupid choice, a ridiculous movie this man would never have seen…

“John McClane…”

Greg nodded, relief and desire swirling through his veins. He didn’t say anything, and when this man leaned forward and his lips parted, Greg felt his breath catch.

“Yippi-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

The phrase was so unexpected Greg gave a bark of laughter. God, he could hear that voice shape R-rated words every day of the week. Something in his expression caught the attention of those eyes and he was arrested by their sudden razor sharp examination. The full weight of the gaze upon him made Greg suddenly realise the man standing in front of him was incredibly observant and incredibly intelligent – and most definitely interested in him.

As Greg watched, the figure raised his coffee in farewell before turning and walking out. The feeling of loss was acute until he realised something.

_It’s his turn next time._

“Okay,” he murmured to himself. There’d be a few weeks until it happened, but the man would be back. He was sure of it.

+++

Several Saturdays passed, and Greg forced himself to spend the quiet afternoons deep cleaning the storeroom. If he stayed in the front of the shop nothing would be achieved; as it was, he was grateful the mornings were quieter as every jangle of the doorbell made his heart leap as his eyes jumped to the door. Knowing the redhead would be away wasn’t enough to stop him from checking each new customer, few as they were in this quiet season. Fiona wasn’t sure if she should close but Greg offered to do a few solo afternoon shifts to keep the door open while giving her a break.

It was better than thinking about being alone over the holidays. The big family day was one thing, but the holidays season was a lot longer than one afternoon, and the darkness closed in early at this time of year.

Between the café and his actual job, Greg barely had time to think, which was kind of the point. When he was at work his mind was on the job, but as soon as he walked into the café daydreams of the redhead filled his mind. Even though he knew it would likely be the New Year until they saw each other, his mind considered scenario after scenario, rehashing the few moments they’d spent together. He see-sawed between being sure they were flirting and being sure he was over exaggerating their conversations.

_Wishful thinking._

Either way, it was the first Saturday in January before they saw each other again.

When Fiona left, Greg grinned at her, the butterflies in his stomach taking flight as she left. This was it, the few hours between now and the end of the day which bore the breath-taking possibility of _him._ Greg didn’t try to hide the fact he was staying in the front of the shop for one reason; he stood behind the bench, watching people walk past, his heart leaping and falling with every almost-but-not-him man who passed. There wasn’t even a guarantee he would come today. All he’d said was travelling, and that didn’t mean anything.

“Good afternoon,” came the familiar voice.

Greg blinked, only realising he’d zoned out when his eyes landed on the figure standing before him. As tall and patient looking as he remembered, a slight smile waiting for Greg to recognise him.

_I didn’t even hear the doorbell._

“Hi,” Greg said, his voice almost a whisper.

“You look well,” the redhead replied with a smile. His eyes were warm as they took in Greg’s expression. He gestured to Greg’s freshly shaved face. “Younger, if I might say so.”

Greg grinned. “Thanks.” It was a good start. “Benjamin Button?”

A raised eyebrow approved of his reference. “Perhaps.”

It was habit to reach for a coffee cup and marker, but Greg curled his fingers instead, forcing himself to wait. Every extra second was precious, and if he wasn’t going to ask, Greg wasn’t going to hurry it.

“How was the Christmas party?” It felt daring to ask, but Greg didn’t want to let the moment pass.

“Barely tolerable,” came the reply.

“They didn’t make you dress up as Santa, did they?” Greg asked with a grin. He hadn’t stopped to think, but the flirty tone wasn’t entirely out of the reasonable for their conversation.

_I hope that’s still okay._

To his relief and satisfaction a flush spread over pale cheeks and Greg couldn’t help but think, _freckles._

“It was not a costume affair, for which I am profoundly grateful.” The shudder was a little theatrical but it still made Greg smile. “Might I surmise your family gathering was somewhat less formal?”

“It was,” Greg said. He leaned in conspiratorially. “I have been known to pull on the red suit in the past.”

The raised eyebrow was speculative, and Greg anticipated the flirtatious tone before it came. “Might I suggest heavy coercion was not required?”

“It was not,” Greg replied with a grin, desire curling in his belly again. “I’m the fun uncle.”

The other man smiled in return. “Lucky nieces and nephews,” he replied. He gestured to the pile of takeaway cups, though Greg wondered if he saw a flash of awkward regret. “I would suggest the name Loki might be more appropriate for you.”

“God of Mischief?” Greg said with a rush of adrenalin that he’d known the reference.

“Indeed.”

Surprised but pleased, Greg decided, watching the expression play across the pale face. Was he always so easy to read, or was Greg getting better at it?

“Marvel movies,” he explained with a grin. “Less of the mythology, more of the entertainment.”

“Still,” the redhead replied. Long fingers curled against the bench as he offered a hesitant smile. “And what name would you consider for me today?”

Greg’s heart stuttered with the challenging tone. His mind raced for a second, before he smiled. It was another risk, perhaps, but in his downtime over the last few weeks he’d anticipated this and Google had been his friend. It had helped him fill the hours, searching for potential names, depending on how brave he might be in any given moment. Right now, he was somewhere in the middle. His hand wasn’t entirely steady, and he had no idea if the redhead would even pick up on his meaning, but he had to try.

_Rory._

_The redhaired King. Even if he doesn’t get it now, Google will tell him. If he wants to know enough to look it up. Assuming he doesn’t know already…_

Greg couldn’t meet the grey eyes, but he saw out of the corner of his eye the slight head tilt that meant his scrawl was being read before he passed the cup over. As coffee flowed those eyes were on him, and again he shied away.

_Too far? He might simply enjoy the game._

_But he’s come back again and again…_

It wasn’t until he passed the finished drink across Greg lifted his eyes, heart beating hard. The expression was as speculative as he expected and Greg found himself searching. It was clear the grey eyes had understood his reference, but there was something else there as well. Greg couldn’t read it, but it was enough to make him swallow hard, and his reaction triggered another. He watched, fascinated, wondering what word would break the silence.

He was disappointed.

The indrawn breath that prefaced speech was instead contained behind pressed lips, the words unspoken.

A single nod, a flash of pained stormy eyes, and he was gone.

Greg let out a breath, the air exploding in the silent shop. The sound of the doorbell hung in the air. Irrational as it might be, he moved over to lock the door, trapping the air they’d both breathed. The nod replayed in his head, and he resigned himself to accept his first impression of that moment.

_He was saying goodbye._

+++

Seven long days, and Greg had braced himself enough to be unsurprised when the next Saturday passed without an afternoon visitor. Even the morning was difficult. Fiona noticed, not pushing him, but she must have seen something because she and Sarah stayed for the afternoon, ostensibly to talk about new ideas for the menu. Her worried eyes darted across the empty café a little too often to convince Greg, and when she insisted they close early and he come back to her place for tea, he didn’t argue. The sadness had taken root by then, sapping his strength.

It was a simple enough matter to put the kids to bed for Fiona and Jack before begging off. She hugged him a little longer and tighter than usual, and Greg accepted it, knowing it was the price for her letting him go without pressing the matter. She was a good sister, he told himself as he brushed his teeth. It was the least he could do to keep working Saturdays for her. Even if the afternoon hours would be a slow, sad torture.

The next week Greg girded his loins the whole way in. He greeted his sister with a smile, guilt twisting hot as he lied that he was okay. Her relieved expression meant he’d done a good job at it; it sat uneasily in his gut, both good and bad. The rest of the day he made a point to smile at people, reminding himself this was for Fiona. It made it easier to fake it if he kept that thought front in his mind.

The hours passed, coffees and faces melting together in a long stream until Sarah finally handed Greg an OJ, their usual sign the kitchen was closed for lunch. He grinned reflexively, making sure to hold her eyes long enough to make it appear sincere. The juice was cold and sweet and he drank it gratefully before ducking out to the tiny bathroom in the back. He was only gone a moment but when he came back, both Fiona and Sarah were bent over something next to the register. Several tables had customers, but with nobody waiting on orders they were free to talk. He wasn’t curious enough to interrupt so Greg busied himself cleaning up.

“Greg,” Fiona said, “look what just appeared.”

He turned away from the coffee machine to see what the women had been examining.

“A coffee cup?” he asked, confused. _Why is that interesting?_

“It’s clean,” Fiona said. She picked it up and turned it, showing him the word carefully inked on the cardboard. “Except for this.”

Greg blinked. It was unlike his own scrawl, elegant script in navy ink up the side of the cup. His breath caught in his throat. It was not a long leap from this handwriting to the person he’d been pushing down in his mind all day.

_It’s him._

“Pro..what does it say?” Greg murmured, more to himself than anything.

“Prokofiev,” Sarah said.

“What?” Greg said, glancing up. He hadn’t expected anyone to hear him.

“Prokofiev,” Sarah repeated. “He wrote ballets.”

“Ballets?” Greg said, even more confused. “How do you know that?”

“All little girls who take ballet lessons want to be ballerinas,” Sarah said with a grin. “I learned everything I could find about ballet.” She nodded at the cup. “And he wrote _Romeo and Juliet_.”

A shot of adrenalin bolted through him at this.

_The most famous romance story ever._

“Right,” Greg murmured. It was Him. But what was this about? He tilted the cup, surprised to find a single red rosebud inside. He pulled it out, looking at Sarah. From the expression on her face, it meant something. “What?” he asked.

Sarah glanced at Fiona and the look that passed between them was a clear message.

_They both understand._

“You know what?” Sarah said. “I think you’re a smart man, Greg. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

He gaped at her for a moment before turning back to the cup. “Was there anything else? A message?”

“This isn’t enough of a message?” Fiona said. Her eyes were shining as she studied her brother. “I’m guessing it means a lot more to you to than it means to me.”

“Nope,” Greg replied. Even to him, his voice sounded unconvincing.

“Right,” Fiona said, clearly not believing him. “Well, if you need anything to go chasing this nothing, let me know.”

Greg nodded. He put the rose back in the cup, his heart pounding to a new rhythm.

_Prokofiev. Prokofiev. Prokofiev._

Greg knew he’d have to do some digging to understand, but he also trusted it wouldn’t be out of his reach. What would be the point if he couldn’t figure it out? As he turned back to the coffee machine, his worry eased. He’d have time. The redhead – his redhead, if he was being daring – would come back next week.

And then it would be up to him.

+++

Fiona rang ‘just to check in’ almost every day that week. Greg knew what she was doing, and he knew she knew he knew it. Rather than being annoyed Greg tried to remember it was because she cared. She was nosey as hell too, of course, but the underlying concern was the most important thing.

Nothing had happened by Saturday morning of course, and Greg found himself restraining the urge to dress for the occasion. He’d still be making coffee all morning and as he concentrated on shaving without cutting himself, Greg reminded his overexcited brain that there was no guarantee today would be the day. Just because it always had been a Saturday didn’t mean it would be this week.

_He’s missed Saturdays before._

Greg kept his head down all morning, ignoring the pointed looks from both Sarah and Fiona as he concentrated on coffee beans and milk. The steam and noise felt protective, and he happily inhabited his world until Fiona came over with his orange juice. Greg thanked her, not quite meeting her eyes as their hands brushed. Instead of disappearing again she leaned one hip on the bench and took a sip from her own drink, eyes assessing.

“What?” Greg said finally, knowing she wouldn’t leave until they’d spoken.

“Any news on the rose person?” she asked.

“You know there isn’t,” Greg replied evenly.

“Do I?” she said mildly.

“Yeah,” Greg said quietly. He wasn’t going to have an argument with her about this, but she clearly had something to say.

“Well given that it was Saturday afternoon when the cup was left here, and you’ve put more product in your hair than usual, and you’ve had that ‘I’m concentrating so I don’t get nervous’ expression all morning, I’m going to guess you’re expecting someone this afternoon.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Of course there was no hiding it from his sister.

“Well Sarah and I won’t stay to crash your party,” she told him. “But close up as soon as you need to, okay?”

Greg grinned at her, accepting her tight hug.

The next hours passed slowly. Greg couldn’t settle on anything, cleaning already spotless surfaces as he listened to the now familiar music. As soon as he’d played it the first time he knew it was right, and he also knew it needed to be playing when the redhead came in. It almost felt like he was here already.

Greg didn’t try to do anything that afternoon. The conversation with his sister somehow eased the nervous tension and he was able to wait quietly. The music was like company. When he turned to the register the red of the rose caught his eye as well. And in a strange kind of way, Greg knew if the music finished and he was still waiting, he’d be okay. Maybe not great, but okay.

All that went out the window when the doorbell rang. It had rung throughout the afternoon, but this time when Greg looked up, he stilled.

It was him.

The other names ran through his head, but when the anxiety registered in his posture and expression, Greg knew today was the day. As though it was choreographed, the couple in the corner stood up and left. The doorbell rang as the door closed behind them, and Greg could feel that this was his moment.

_He’s made his move._

_It’s my turn now._

Greg walked around the register. There was nothing between them now and the analogy was not lost on him.

_No more playacting._

“Sergei Prokofiev composed _Romeo and Juliet_ in the thirties,” Greg said, his heart pounding. A slight smile and a nod encouraged him to continue. Hand shaking, he picked up the rose. “I hope I get this right,” he murmured with a nervous smile. The eyes that met his were soft and encouraging; he could ask for no clearer sign right now.

_Come on, Lestrade._

Drawing a deep breath, he recited, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not called Romeo, retain the dear perfection which he owns without that title.” Greg paused, feeling his heart ramp up even faster. “Romeo, doff thy name and for that name, which is no part of thee,” he stepped closer and offered the rose as he finished quietly, “take all of myself.”

Greg’s words were still ringing in his own ears when he felt fingers slide along his own, enveloping the rose and his fingers in one.

The redhead was breathing a little too deeply to be entirely calm, and his eyes were like liquid mercury, affectionate and soft. Greg wondered if anyone else ever saw that expression.

_Will I ever stop wanting to look into those eyes?_

When he spoke, Greg swallowed hard, drawing the words into his very core.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” he said.

_Mycroft. Not quite as different as Doryphoros, but still unusual._

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

Mycroft’s smile was like the sun rising. Greg was sure there was a quote from the same scene of Romeo and Juliet about the sun, but as he and Mycroft moved to shake hands he couldn’t remember another single word in the world.


End file.
